


Natasha Romanoff Needs Sugar

by AlmostBriarRose



Series: Steve Rogers vs. Coffee [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Adorable Steve Rogers, Coffee, Multi, crackfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 06:44:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11686206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostBriarRose/pseuds/AlmostBriarRose
Summary: Natasha isn't usually picky with her coffee in the morning, except when she's hungover and has a day off.





	Natasha Romanoff Needs Sugar

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing. 
> 
> I started posting this on FF.net ages ago but have decided to move it here. I really do like this fic, even though I've sort of abandoned it recently. I will be posting all of the sections within the next month, as well as writing more. Hope you all enjoy it!

The sun was shining brightly through his window, and Steve rolled over to try and hide. The scent of cider, vodka, and cordite on the pillow he shoved his face into reminded him of what happened last night. He groaned as the party at the club came back to him. He was thankful that he wasn’t hungover, but he wasn’t so sure about his missing bedmate. He turned his head and cracked an eye open. The glass and painkillers were missing from the bedside table, and the bathroom was dark, so he assumed she was either gone or in the kitchen. He rolled towards the edge of the bed, leaving the covers rumpled as he stood up and searched for a pair of pants. One leg of his boxers was bunched up, and he adjusted it before pulling on a pair of flannel lounge pants. He searched for a t-shirt for a moment before he smelled coffee and gave up. Scratching at his bare chest, he made his way into the kitchen to find a mussy-haired assassin wearing his t-shirt perched cross-legged on the counter, staring intently at the burbling coffee maker. His favorite coffee mug, which Sam had gotten custom for him for Christmas that read “On Your Left”, was cradled in her lap like a small child.  
“Hey Nat, how are you feeling? I see you found the painkillers I left you,” he said, scratching at his chest as he went to the fridge. “How do eggs and toast sound? I think I have some of that rye bread still.” She didn’t respond, and Steve pulled his head out of the fridge to look at her. Her green eyes were intently focused on the percolating coffee, following each drip of the caffeinated beverage as it hit the surface. It was really freaking Steve out, if he was totally honest with himself. “Nat, you okay?”  
She just grunted in response. His brow furrowed; this was very odd behavior. The redheaded spy was usually quite chipper in the morning, having to put up with random calls to action at insane hours, and sometimes going without sleep. So to see her so intently watching the coffee pot was slightly disturbing.  
The coffee pot gurgled to a stop, and Natasha pounced. She poured her coffee and began to rummage through his cabinets. Steve shrugged and began to crack eggs into the bowl, adding a little milk and whisking.  
“Sugar,” she said, her voice helpless-sounding. “Sugar?”  
“Um, what?”  
“Sugar?!?” she cried out, her voice breaking.  
“I used the last of it when I made that pie for Bucky’s birthday. I’m sorry, I haven’t had time to run to the st-” said Steve, who was cut off midsentence as he ended up on the floor, covered in eggs, with a very angry Russian pressing a knife to his throat. She growled at him, her tangled red hair falling in a curtain around both of their faces. Steve was sure that if there wasn’t a knife pressed against his jugular, he would probably be very turned on by the lithe body pressed against his.  
“Sugar,” she growled again.  
“I don’t have any, Nat, I’m sorry!” he said, trying to keep his voice calm through the fear that his teammate might actually kill him over a few teaspoons of sugar. Natasha growled again, closer to his face. Steve swallowed loudly and remained very, very still.  
A few tense minutes – punctuated by Natasha growling “Sugar” menacingly in his face – later, someone knocked on Steve’s door. “Hello? Nat? Steve? I came to check on you two at Darcy’s behest. She said something about Nat being super drunk?”  
“Clint! Pick the damn lock and get your purple-clad ass in here!” yelped Steve as Natasha pressed the knife harder against his skin. There was a jiggling sound from the door handle, and muffled swearing.  
“You okay guys?” asked the archer, skidding into the kitchen. He gaped at the two figures tangled up on the floor.  
“Don’t just stand there, get some fuCKING SUGAR SO YOUR BEST FRIEND DOESN’T KILL ME!” yelped Steve. Natasha just glared down at him.  
“You had her spend the night after heavy drinking and don’t have any sugar in the house? Do you have a death wish, Rogers?” asked Clint, opening a cabinet over the fridge and rummaging around. There was a clicking noise, and Clint pulled out a box of little sugar packets.  
“Where the fuck did you get that?” asked Steve as Natasha rolled off of him and swiped the sugar from Clint’s hand.  
“I installed secret compartments in all of the rooms with coffee makers. Nat loves her coffee on her days off. She won’t even speak before she has her first cuppa,” replied Clint, leaning down to help Steve up. “You might want to go shower, Steve-o. You’ve got egg right there.” Clint gestured widely to Steve’s whole body, and the soldier rolled his eyes in return.  
“Thanks for the save, Clint,” he said, clapping his teammate on the shoulder. “I just wish you had told me that before I had a knife at my throat.” Clint just grinned and shoved him toward the bathroom to shower. Steve glanced back at Natasha, who blinked her vibrant green eyes at him over the rim of her coffee mug. He smiled softly at her, and the tops of her cheekbones darkened with a blush. He grinned more cockily and strolled off to shower, laughing when a sugar packet hit him in the back of the head.


End file.
